by Malaika Booker-Wright
I have half of this man’s genes. His blood runs through my veins. I have his nose. I have his lips. I have his hair. I have his “worry lines.” Yet, I only have a handful of memories involving him.
Continue reading → A Daughter's Love is a Terrible Thing to Waste
by Nancy McDaniel
For some reason, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my father lately. My dad and I were very close. I was an only child and my mom died when I was 16, so Daddy and I spent a lot of time together. He died about 12 years ago. I don’t think about him every day, but I’ve thought of him a lot lately.
by Nancy McDaniel
When I walk down the streets of Chicago by myself, it never enters my mind to wonder about the things I see. Why, for example, are people standing on the corner? That’s easy; they are waiting for a bus. Why are those people frowning? Simple, because they’re unhappy or stressed. When I walk along the beach in Florida, all sorts of questions, most without answers, go through my mind. Is it because I revert back to a childhood full of beach walks? Or am I just bored with too much time on my hands? Either way, on the beach, I become a philosopher of sorts.
by Nancy McDaniel
I’ll bet I wrote something with that title when I was a little girl. And I’ll bet it would have been pretty similar to what I’d like to say today about Daddy, or Johnny Mac, as you may have called him. Except now I think I have a few more insights about, though no less love for, this man, whom many of you called your friend. I also called him my friend. One of my favorite Father’s Day gifts to him was a plaque that said, “Happiness is having a father as a best friend.”
by Steve Gaines
captured in the bronze of time
my father’s memory shines
hangs prominently on the granite wall
of my own mortality.
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